I'll look for you
in the deep, cobalt blue
of a mountain lake,
or the startled crake
of a moorhen,
flushed from its nest,
or the idle word, said in jest
over a steaming mug,
as we huddled and shrugged
off the cold and damp
round the guttering lamp
that attracted the moths
and the tales of weird Goths
that inhabited the wood
in which we stood,
as we...
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